


Strollin'

by whatthefoucault



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: A Single Thinly-Veiled Reference To Star Wars, Brooklyn, Coney Island, Food, M/M, New York City, Soft Stucky, Steve Rogers's Birthday, beach, hot dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 05:23:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15163592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/pseuds/whatthefoucault
Summary: "Hot dogs?" asked Steve."Hot dogs," agreed Bucky.





	Strollin'

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 100th birthday to Steve Rogers, America's sweetheart.

The sun was intermittent at best, but it was hot enough without it. Steve should have long since grown used to the fact that the heat no longer made him wheeze and gasp for air like a landed fish, but sometimes, especially when he was tired, he forgot. As he swallowed a heavy lungful of air, Bucky swiftly took him by the elbow, leading him to the nearest unoccupied bench.

"Not having asthma troubles again, are you?" he asked, rubbing circles into Steve's back. Given the fact that, unsurprisingly, no long-term clinical trials had been run on the serum before Steve was subjected to it, it was always possible that his good health was not permanent. He was aware that he could be as strong and sturdy as this for the rest of his days, or he might slow down with time, just like anyone else. For now, however, some things were more out of reflex than of need.

And the fact that he still kept an inhaler in his bedside table was just a sensible precaution.

"Just... force of habit," replied Steve. "Though I gotta say the attention is pretty nice."

Bucky laughed. "You know you don't have to have an asthma attack to get me to cuddle you anymore, right?"

"Yeah, I know," smiled Steve. "Hot dogs?"

"Hot dogs," agreed Bucky.

New York was especially proud of its institutions: those places that had somehow endured for decades, sometimes over a century now, always the first of their kind. Or if not the first, inarguably the best - at least if you asked the locals. That was not to say that hot dogs from anywhere else were necessarily inferior, or even that the hot dogs from this particular establishment were objectively the best, but there was something to be said for a food that tethered itself so steadfastly to memory. In their youth, Bucky and Steve would sometimes make a day of it, trundle down to the boardwalk at Coney Island, and there would always be hot dogs: glistening and plump, nestled in a soft bun, topped with a tangle of fresh sauerkraut, and generously and artfully squizzled with the sweet tang of tomato ketchup. These days, they liked to add crispy onions too, but the sense memory was just as potent: the smell of the sand and the sea, the sound of thrill-seeking chumps screaming their lungs out over the clanking and rolling of the rides, the spectacle of two or three ornery seagulls fighting it out over a discarded onion ring.

Steve knew this birthday excursion was a ruse, but he was determined nonetheless to enjoy it.

"So when are we due back at the house for the party?" he asked.

"What party?" shrugged Bucky, already munching on a mouthful of hot dog.

"The party the others are hastily putting together at our house," clarified Steve, "which is why you bundled me out the door in such a hurry this morning without telling me where we were going and why we had to take the Q train to get there, and why you cleaned the kitchen last night, and why Sam's been asking me stuff about what kinds of cake I like _just out of curiosity_."

"Yep," confirmed Bucky, his arm snug around Steve's waist, as they strolled down toward the boardwalk. "But I laid down some ground rules on your behalf. Ten guests maximum, at least one pizza with pineapple, as many embarrassing gifts as possible."

"Buck," protested Steve, as if he thought there was any chance he could get away with marking his hundredth birthday only by being coerced into donning a new t-shirt with the words OLD AS BALLS printed in big black letters.

"Hey, you only turn a hundred once," shrugged Bucky.

"Okay, okay," conceded Steve, his arm slung around Bucky's shoulders as he leaned in for a kiss. "You taste like hot dog."

"No shit, punk," said Bucky.

"But seriously, when are we due back at the house for the party?" asked Steve, gazing out toward the waves beyond the beach. He relished the first bite of his lunch, moreish and warm.

"In about an hour," Bucky told him, snuggling into his side.

"It'd be okay if we're late though, right?" asked Steve. "Can't have hot dogs and then not get ice cream for dessert."

"You're damn right," agreed Bucky. "They can hide behind the sofa for an extra hour or two."

"Thanks, Buck," said Steve.

"Happy birthday, punk," said Bucky.

"You know," mused Steve, as they meandered in the direction of ice cream, "the Cyclone's smaller than I remember."

Bucky smiled at him. "You wanna?"

Steve laughed softly. "Not unless you want half-eaten hot dog all over your shoes, I don't."

**Author's Note:**

> Research tells me that hot dog "afficionados" have declared that putting ketchup on hot dogs is gauche. Those people can get directly to fuck. It's a tasty street food sausage on a bun. What about that doesn't say "yes, please pair me with the tangy tomato condiment" to you sad, joyless people? Steve and Bucky are judging you super hard. Happy birthday, Steve!
> 
> What do you like on your hot dogs? Feel free to leave a comment below, check out my other stories, or just [come say hi on tumblr](http://whatthefoucault.tumblr.com)!


End file.
